


Of Rain and Ruin

by Crunchy_Frog



Series: Of Rain and Ruin [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: All the canon characters are side characters in this, BTW this does get hella sad, Battle Scenes, Battle Under The Trees, Battle of Lothlorien, Battle of Mirkwood, Bree - Freeform, But there's always a happy ending, But within their personal circles, Ents!, Except they speak in riddles sometimes, Fangorn Forest, Gondor, I mean, I spent a lot of time and a hell of a lot of research, I tried to make this plausible, I write this when I get depressed, Invasion of Eastern Rohan, Lothlórien, Middle Earth is my home away from home, Mirkwood, My HC is that Elves are held in high esteem amongst everyone else, My OC's are in the limelight for this, Nightmares, Post-War of the Ring, Pre-War of the Ring, Premonitions, Rivendell | Imladris, Rohan, Sauron is a dick, The Valar are mentioned A LOT, Violent, Visions, War of the Ring, Which is all the time so, and violent, i had so much fun writing this, they're just the same as everyone else, wandering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-09-05 09:45:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16808173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crunchy_Frog/pseuds/Crunchy_Frog
Summary: - There are few events that took place during the War of the Ring which there are no published works on (by Tolkien), and so I have written this, as my interpretation of three battles that took place at the end of the Third Age, and what lead to them taking place -In the late years of the Third Age of Middle-earth, Sauron's terror had begun to rein once more. The Valar, though they cannot and will not directly intervene, have chosen a select few of the Free Peoples of Middle-earth to be gifted with visions of what is to come. The first is an unsuspecting half-elf from the depths of Mirkwood. Afflicted by these visions, she leaves her home amongst the wood-elves, and seeks out those, like her, who are plagued by the 'gift' - and to warn them before the world as they know it falls to the Shadow.





	1. Chapter One

Neithrien looked out from the window of her family home with a blank expression upon her fair face, showing almost no sign of any emotion except for the slight line of frustration that formed between her brows, caused by the cacophony in the back of the home. Beyond the glass lay the great forest of Mirkwood; where knotted trees and twisted things lay. The trees were gnarled and aged beyond reason, the ground littered in damp, rotten leaves and mulch fragrant with mildew. Violet hues of oncoming dusk bathed the late spring leaves in a pale light that made them look almost transparent to the naked eye; but skeletons of what they were. In this near constant gloom, there was a beauty to be found, though one often had to search for it, for the vibrancy of how the forest used to be, in younger days and softer years, was gone, and replaced by the darkness that had poisoned the land. It was figured the only true beauty to be found in this accursed land was the faces of the elves that lived sparsely through-in.  
The young elleth resided in a small cluster of huts and houses built by the small number of elves that dwelled in the large forest glade on the far northern point of Mirkwood - though some huts were constructed just outside of the glade - above the Forest River, and safely distanced from the Spiders’ Rings. It was a spot of quiet and peace, undisturbed by visitors - or trespassers, moreover - where elves who had lived in the forest before its corruption now stayed, tucked away in their homes, only to be seen when out for a hunt, or something of the like. Few elflings were to be seen, for they were rarely being born these days - and not just in Mirkwood, but in Middle-Earth, for the number of the Eldar were diminishing. What once was a great number had dwindled to an abysmal 100,000 some odd elves; the rest had either been slain in battles passed, or sailed West, or what seemed to be most common in these times, was the fading of elves.  
The home of Ârnoth Iaumenion - father of Neithrien and her elder brother, Nestedir - was of the larger houses in the glade, for more wealth was gifted to them through centuries of service in the king’s guard and other jobs before he had migrated to the forest: at the time that Ârnoth had come to the forest, it was still Greenwood the Great. Found snug in the north-eastern corner of the clearing and reaching back into the forest, the house had a great roof, which came to a center point that sloped downward, where one could gather rainwater in pales for cooking and bathing: great windows stretched over its curved front, dark beams of wood separating the thin panes of elven glass like spindly branches of a barren tree in winter. An old oak door was placed at the front of the home, which inside held four large rooms that were all decorated warmly yet elegantly, the furniture made by the hands of Arnoth himself; an expansive sitting room that was decorated with large hand-woven rugs, long-backed armchairs and small tea tables, bookshelves filled to the brim with books and journals and other trinkets that the children had made or found, potted ferns that hung from the ceiling, and the whole room warmed by a great fireplace with a river stone hearth that always seemed to be crackling joyously. The living room lead into a large kitchen filled with windows for everlasting light and a small pantry. Through the other side was the dining room, where a great table sat adjacent to a window that looked out upon the woods, always furnished with delicately embroidered table runners, bowls of fresh food from the gardens, bushels of dried flowers from about the forest floor, and long-stemmed candles of wax that seemed to burn without end, and great wooden chairs pushed snuggly against it. In addition to the larger parts of the home were modestly sized bathing rooms, all clustered together and separated only by fabric screens that were mounted on iron bars high on the wall, which inside held flourishing plants and candles, and deep bathing pools that were rimmed with perfumes and soaps of any and all kinds, gifts often sent by the family’s kin from afar, just to remind them that they still existed. Beside these pools was always a large pale for fetching water, for they were unfortunately nowhere near natural springs, and had to trek by horse to the river for water when rains did not grace the land (an occurrence that seemed to become more frequent than ever in recent years).  
The family that had lived there was full of love and mirth and joy. Ârnoth, an ellon of great stature and pride, with a gentle disposition and a heart filled with warmth lived there with his fair wife, Nibenel. Nibenel, was in fact the elvish name that had been given to her upon her marriage to Ârnoth (its meaning was Short Woman, which was her defining characteristic it seemed to some, as she only reached a few inches above five feet) for her real name was Ceollith, daughter of Gléothain of Rohan. Their meeting and eventual union in itself is a story to be told another time, for it is great and it is sweet, just as it is bitter and full of sadness near the end of their days. Together, Ârnoth and Nibenel were given their first son, Nestedir, a sweet and gentle boy who had become taken with the comfort of his father’s arms almost immediately, for he loved Arnoth most. For twenty years they cherished the small family they had created, when Nibenel had again begat a child (at an age remarkable for her to do so, being in her fifties), and a year thereafter was born Neithrien, a spirit of tenacity but also great sweetness that was ever-present and never ceased to make itself known. As a family, they experienced nothing but joy and comfort in their lives. To the people of the glade, they were a family to be envious of, and rightfully so - at least, that was Nibenel’s thought on the matter.  
Nestedir was one to stay at home and help around the home with cleaning and keeping to scholarly activities, not liking getting his hands dirty, while Neithrien had taken to hunting with her father, and helping her mother in the garden and the kitchen, and all other areas in which she was able to aide Nibenel, for she loved her best. Under the roof of Ârnoth of Mirkwood, the children grew up from elflings to adults without any issue or struggle, and Nibenel aged ever slowly, as is the nature of the race of men. For 59 years they were a family, close-knit, before Nibenel fell ill in her shockingly old age of 110. Neithrien was just nine years past coming of age, and stricken heavily by the grief that came along with the passing of her mother. Struck so heavily, in fact, that for near sixty seemingly endless years she mourned for her mother, and wished her back and to be held in her warm arms again, and sung to in tongues of men and elf. Nestedir, though very loving of his mother, was less stricken by her death, as he had seen it as just another way of life, and was another push that led him towards him choosing immortality when he reached ninety years of age.  
Ârnoth, in heavy pain of the loss, erected memorials to his wife and placed them about the abode: a great stained glass of Nibenel in her youth and everlasting beauty, captioned by her true name, Ceollith sat in the study of the house, casting the room in jewel tones. A small bust of her was placed in his quarters, and sat upon his writing table, where small simbelmyne grew miraculously over her carven waves and chiseled eyes. Other bits of paraphernalia and memorabilia were to be found, but they were however small and hidden, as Ârnoth intended. So struck in his grief was he, that after three hundred years of his wife passing, he himself faded into nothing, leaving his children with no parentage, only shadows of what had been, still fairly young in elven years, since they had both since chosen immortality. They were then 264 and 244, respectively.  
Some 120 years had now passed since, and there the siblings remained in their home that had once been bright with love, that was now dim and empty more often than not. For the differences between the two siblings had never been so apparent until their parents had left the earth. Nestedir had grown to be meek and timid, not one to seek for adventure or any sort of excitement, and took to drinking and eating and holing himself away whenever his presence was not required. Just as bad a perian, Neithrien had always thought, and occasionally told, much to her brother’s chagrin. Neithrien, however, was a bold woman, and longed to leave and seek new lands and discover all, and visit the places where her parents had been before her, for the stories they’d told her were excellent and sparked her spirit. She was not one to stay in place for long periods at a time, for her soul longed to be somewhere else constantly. And she had an itch for something she couldn’t quite place, ever since a darkness had begun to gradually spread some three or four years ago, after word of the strange company of dwarves had passed through this land.  
But, Nestedir was under the impression that he was to assume the role of parent, and attempted to bend her to his will, and felt that she was to be treated only as a child with a touch of too much ambition, and did all he could to contain her and keep her at bay, trapped in the glade of Mirkwood which she was so tired of seeing day after day. It angered her to no avail, and she made it known whenever she could. Nestedir had taken the passing of their father the hardest, and had built walls around himself, and took to drinking heavily in the late hours of the day, and often into the early hours of the morning, always inviting friends of his over as an excuse to lay himself out in a drunken hurricane.  
So, now here she stood, looking out across the sad lands before her; a small patch of lavender somehow thriving and almost bright against the darkening skies, with a small statue of Ceollith in the midst of it, as if she lived forever in the crop of fragrant flowers - her favorite, Ârnoth had explained when he planted the patch. Nestedir could be heard in the back of the house - shuffling about in search of wine, no doubt. He had friends over for dinner, which meant there was to be great noise of drunken ellyn - just what Neithrien loved most.  
“Neithrien, if you’d like to stop skulking in the living room, we’d love for you to be in the kitchen!” Called her brother with a slur of the tongue - _drunk already, it seems_. With a great heaving sigh and a fleeting memory of the old kindness in her brother’s heart, she turned on her heel and walked down the hall, into where the kitchen resided. Through the archway, the long table could be seen, pouring over with drink and drunkards and crumbs from the food previously placed. In the great stone oven, there lay a loaf of bread. She brought the paddle out from where it hung behind her on the wall and slid it smoothly under the loaf and pulled it out swiftly, sliding it onto a wooden cutting board with ease, before putting away the paddle. Then, with quick hands, she pulled a hunk of cheese out from one of the cupboards, and placed thinly sliced, smoked meats beside it. Carving knives were set atop the board carefully, before she grabbed a bowl of dried fruits from the year’s past harvest, and tucked a bottle of Dorwinion wine (for herself, of course) under her arm, and strode quickly into the dining room. There, without looking directly at anyone, she set the platter atop the table, and placed the fruit behind it. A chorus of cheers and _thank you’s_ sounded from the ellyn, followed by the chime of laughter and the smell of mead heavy on the breath, and Nestedir patted his hand over his sister’s - his own pathetic way of showing his gratitude, she guessed. With a tight lipped smile that dared not reach her cheeks, she stood straight, running her hands down the plain of her stomach, and met eyes with one of the ellyn - Arasson, his name was. She knew him to be one of Nestedir’s oldest friends, and a good acquaintance of hers. Chiefly, she remembered him from when they were but elflings.  
He was only a bit older, and would readily play with her when she asked him to if her brother refused or wasn’t nearby. They never saw much of each other anymore, for the days of true youth were gone, and their lives were now consumed by duty and family; only in passing did they encounter one another, with awkward side-glances and pathetic lilts of the mouth in attempts to smile. But by no means did she wish ill upon him, which was rare, seeing as he was the only one of her brother’s friends that she didn’t get the urge to kick in the shins repeatedly.  
Arasson passed her a warm smile, which was more than he usually gave up to her - no doubt his lips loosened by the alcohol - but still welcomed all the same. She returned it with a small smile of her own, and a slight bow of the head, before taking her leave from the room, wine bottle still clutched under her arm.  
He watched her leave, the subtle churn in his chest noticeable, but easily confused with the warmth from his drink. Her thin violet gown swayed back and forth over her bare ankles and caught in her legs as she walked, and the length of her hair flicked to the side as she tossed her head back to drink from the bottle, a clear signal of her exasperation with the company at hand, for she was not known to drink heavily, or to even drink at all. Another small smile passed over his mouth as he watched her leave, the memories of watching her grow up alongside himself flying before his eyes, and a breath of nostalgic laughter puffed out from his lips. Absolutely beautiful, she was already, and even more she was going to be, for she looked almost just like her mother, save for the dark hair and elvish fairness that radiated from her at times. She was still aging a little, coming into her own - Arasson guessed that was just the half-elven nature, to complete aging later on in life than full elves. Her cheeks were still full and rosy, and her nose upturned and thin. Her green eyes were wide and young still, yet aged as well; aged beyond her years, as were her brother’s. Dark chestnut hair gleamed in the lamps of the house, curling just over her shoulders in heavy waves that always fell into her face like a curtain. He had always found her to be attractive, cute as he’d say, and at times thought that perhaps he’d marry her one day, in the fleeting moments of slight infatuation. But nay, that was unlikely to come for him, for she was unattainable at best, her boldness and frankly cold disposition beyond his shyness and inability to hold an attraction to her longer than four days.  
Neithrien now sat in her chambers, upon her bed. Her dress had been cast aside, hung over the back of her tall reading chair, and she now lounged in her pale shift, the hem hiked up to her knees as she used them to prop up the book she had drawn her attention to. In her other hand sat the wine bottle, just barely drunken out of, but the sweet taste still lingered heavily on tongue and breath. Night was now falling, and the moon had just begun to show his face, shining silver upon the canopy of the trees in the forest. She watched from her window, the rising of Him, as he passed over the treetops and settled over the clearing, illuminating the closed buds of flowers, and the few elves that paced the grounds outside. When she tuned out the din of her brother and company, she could hear the wrestling of the leaves in the soft night-time breeze, the deer across the clearing rummaging for a late night snack, and beyond that, the Forest River gurgling heavily in the distance. Peaceful was the night, and in that she relished.  
With the sounds of the company now dying down to a drunken murmur, she set her book aside on the dark-stained night table, and crossed her room, bottle in hand. She quickly and quietly disposed of it, only feeling one set of eyes on her, likely only to be Nestedir or Arasson, as per usual, before she slipped quietly into her chambers once more. There, she drew the sheer, cream curtains over her window, blew out the long candles that sat upon her table, and slipped into her bed, under the soft, cool sheets and heavy maroon blankets, settling for the night’s rest.  
Rest did not befall Neithrien that night - only a silent terror in the form of dream. A dream in which she saw the world outside her home, toiling and itching with the threat of war – something she had never known, but could easily recognize - bubbling in every man’s throat; some, great and impenetrable men, others weak and bent to the will of darkness. She saw boys filing before the great gates of some fortress, clad in armor and weaponry, large helms over their small and youthful faces that were wrought with fear. A once green and fertile land dug up and run amok, the river running with muck and the sky polluted. A great red sun rising on the bleak horizon, the sign of blood spilt, with coils of black smoke rising from great mounds across barren fields. And she saw fire. Fire in the forests, fire in men, fire in the hearts of women abandoned, and fire in a great eye that blazed and pierced like a hot iron rod that burned through her mind and scorched her heart, leaving a cry of all horrid sorts echoing in her ears. She had woken in a cold sweat, mouth parched and her lungs burning. These were things to come, and things that were just beginning, she knew. And in her knowledge, the itch to do more had been strengthened, though she knew not yet herself what it was calling for her to do. It was her own call to war, her call to protect and defend her land and the free peoples inside. For there too, she saw the further corruption of her home.  
So it was, on a cool June’s dawn, that the warrior had now put roots in the young peredhel’s heart, and the soldier was to be born and brought forth.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time skip  
> Also my Sindarin isn't exactly perfect, and technically speaking, Sindarin wasn't a language spoke often amongst common elves in Mirkwood - it was predominantly Silvan, but there's no developed Silvan language, as far as I know.  
> Translations at the bottom.  
> P.S. - Sorry that the paragraphs aren't indented. I'm not entirely sure why they aren't, but they just are :/

34 short years had since passed when Neithrien first had her dream. In those years, the world - both her own and the one that existed outside - changed. She had felt it deep within her bones, like molten dread that replaced her marrow, and saw it in small things that one might not normally see. The skies were darkening, or so it seemed at times, when one’s eyes were drawn southward, spying black clouds of fowl that carried under their wings a watchful wind. More and more elves were migrating into the forest from surrounding areas, while others left for safer places, such as Lórien – and some had heard and seen that families were traveling far west, into Rivendell, which was rare and a shock to those who knew and understood the underlying mild disdain between the Noldor and Sindar. Even some men from beyond the forest had migrated closer to the Emyn-nu-Fuin. Others were moving to live in Thranduil’s vast caverns. Those who lived still openly in the woods felt a growing uneasiness about Dol Guldur, in which foul things had been previously born, and was settled uncomfortably close to home.  
The feeling of doom was growing thicker by the year, and fear was gripping the hearts of many that lived in the forest, fearing the corruption that already resided would only intensify and fall to complete darkness.  
Nestedir had changed, as well, and Neithrien had thought this for the better, save for a few qualities that were likely to never leave him. He had let go, for the most part, of his grief - he had shed his old, calloused skin, though he was still timid and reserved and very much disapproving of his sister’s affairs and adventurous qualities. The heavy drinking had stopped, for he now could no longer taste mead without tasting his own bile and depression; the parties had stopped, for all his friends, who were younger than he, save a few, had joined the king’s guard and no longer had time for jovial pursuits.  
Nestedir himself had become a fully committed healer for those who lived inside the king’s caverns; a power which he and his family had always known of and wished to be used, for it was a skill and an art that was to be honored. When he was not needed in the Houses of Healing, he took to tending the family garden when Neithrien was not home to do so, though he didn’t find much joy in it, and occasionally playing his harp for the stable maiden that lived nearby.  
Since her dream - her waking nightmare, to be more precise - Neithrien had done her best to get as close to the service as a knight, or even just a pawn in the army. Though, she’d only been able to be given the duty of a Woodland Guard, as it was the only open position, it still paid well enough to support her and her brother and gave her the necessary combat experience if she ever was needed in the call to arms. Quickly had she been able to fit snug into her role, for she already possessed the spirit of the fierce warriors who guarded the forest, and had little fear left in her of the perils of the forest, for her dreams were enough to make spines of steel quiver. Aside from her duties to the forest, she had taken to studying maps, sewing – as her mother had taught her to do a very long time ago – and began to hunt more frequently than she had previously done, even though her game was no more than the occasional black squirrel and fatty fowl.  
The forest seemed to be lifeless the past four weeks that she had been on duty, but especially this day. Only the sounds of the patter of rain upon the remaining leaves of the autumn-time trees, the faint movement of stable animals in the distance, and the rustling of the spiders far off; though ears that were not elvish could not hear such a thing from this distance. Neithrien was placed on the southern border of the Forest River, the Enchanted River to the west of her position. She had been stationed to keep eyes upon that area of the forest, for it was only a short trek to the palace of the Elvenking from where she sat, and spiders had been becoming braver and venturing closer than normal. Of course, though, that they wouldn’t be causing any trouble on the day she was assigned to guard the caverns, along with several others in her troop. Some were below, crouched behind old, gnarled tree stumps, and others were sat high up in a few of the beech trees – the archers.  
Perched high up in an old oak tree she was, invisible now to the naked eye, for elven fabric had the knack of camouflaging those who wore such garments. Her long, pointed hood was drawn over her head, just low enough to protect her head from the fat drops of rain, but to ensure that her eyes were still able to scan over the lengthy stretch of land. Her arms, clad in thick grey-brown fabric and leather bracers, were crossed over her chest, one hand brought to her mouth where she munched on a bit of broken _lembas_ , crumbs settling on the corner of her mouth. Long and dreary had her day been, uneventful save for the news of spiders down south, but was otherwise unbothered by such a thing, for it wasn’t her that had to be chasing off the abhorrent creatures. Heavy was the scent of fresh rain upon dirt, wet, rotting bark, and the sour stench of the spider web remains that were scattered about the trees, but abandoned. It choked her senses from time to time when she breathed too deep. She now waited desperately for her replacement to appear, so she could finally get home and warm her feet by the fire. It had been a month since she’d been home, which was by all means normal for a Guard, but this stretch of duty had felt longer and more tedious to her, making her long for clean clothes and a soft mattress all the more.  
The hours ticked by slowly, as if time itself was made of molasses, and was dragging its leaden feet on its way to relieving Neithrien, who had dropped down to a lower branch and reclined against the trunk of the tree, her thighs straddling the thick bough, leather-booted legs dangling, and her long wooden bow lay across her lap. Her eyes were half-lidded and lazily scanning the area, humming lowly to herself a tune which she didn’t even know the words to. If anyone was to attempt to tell her again what boredom was, she’d possibly burst with wrath, for this truly was, in all accounts, boredom of the highest degree. But, before she could lament any further, a long, low whistle came from below her place in the tree, and she perked up immediately. Her head lolled to the side, where she spotted the troop of dark figures, but one in particular that made her grin - a hooded figure, familiar wisps of long hair blowing out from beneath the hood, cast in a silver glow under the waning moon.  
With an open smile, something that she often did not expose to anything but her maps and her garden, she swung her legs from over the large girth of the branch, gripped her bow in one hand, and then slipped down the height, landing soundlessly on both feet in a slight crouch. She straightened herself, letting the wide smile lessen to only a small grin.  
“Someone looks happy to be relieved of duty.” The low, friendly voice teased, a smile heard in the words. The others in the troop behind him wandered off to where the others were hidden, taking their places.  
“Arasson,” she sighed, brushing off the front of her uniform, flicking a remainder of _lembas_ from her shoulder. “I take it you’re covering me from now until midnight?”  
“Yes. Then we’ll all be headed home.” He looked at her face, which held the faintest lines. “Rough night?”  
“Words cannot describe just how bored I was.”  
A light smirk played over his mouth, and his mist-colored eyes crinkled at the edges warmly. “So, nothing to report, then?”  
“Nothing, other than that Gaulon had a run-in with a couple of spiders down by Rhosgobel.” Said Neithrien as she slung her bow over her back. “Something tells me that your night, too, will be just as uneventful as mine. _Ha’s an cin hi._ ”  
Arasson chuckled as she clapped him on the back, and he turned briefly to watch her leave. A warmth spread over his cheeks and up to the sharp tips of his ears as his gaze stuck to her figure, swaying as she set out with others from her own troop, on her way to report to their Captain. An attraction had reared its ugly head again.

When she arrived home after report, she found her brother sat in one of the great, tall-backed armchairs before the fire in the river-stone fireplace, a fur pelt draped over his legs, with dark grey eyes peacefully half-lidded in sleep. Soft snores left his mouth, and blew stray strands of dark brown hair from his cheeks, only for them to settle there again. Her lips drew up in a loving smile, thankful for the peace that at least passed over him, for it had not been gracing her these days.  
With silent feet, she walked to her chambers, where she peeled her uniform from her body. On a peg, she let rest the thick hood, and on another hung the suit of mail. She toed off her tight boots, and propped up her bow and quiver in the corner behind her door; on a hanging shelf, she let lay her long knives. The physical weight was gone from her shoulders, and she breathed happily, before slipping fully out of her wear, and into a shift, before she slid out and into the bathing rooms. There, she found that heated water had already been poured in for her, though lukewarm now. _When he’s not in a drunken stupor, he’s very sweet, isn’t he?_ Quickly she washed the filth and rain of the numerous days off her body, and let the warm water loosen her shoulders, which were taut with slight muscle and deep knots.  
After her bath, she went to the kitchen, and prepared herself a light dinner with what remained of Nestedir’s meal. Alone at the great table she sat, absently slipping forkfuls of greens and salted meat into her mouth, as her eyes were drawn to the book that came from the house of Arasson’s family that lay in her hand. It was a brief tale and series of accounts and interactions (and featured some songs and poems as well, for those who were interested) of and with Tom Bombadil - one who only few knew of, and fewer who actually knew him. He was an elusive figure, for it is not said quite what he is in race – not _perian_ , nor dwarf, and certainly not man or elf. It was said though, from times when he was more known amongst the elves of old that he was in fact a physical incarnate of Ilúvatar upon Middle-Earth. The history was absolutely fascinating, and Neithrien had not been able to peel her eyes away from the moment she began reading at dinner time. From her side, a throat cleared, drawing her gaze begrudgingly up to her brother.  
“Sleep well?” She offered half a smile, the other cheek packed with food that she slowly chewed. He returned the expression and pulled out a chair for himself, and sat adjacent to her, picking a few stray berries from her plate, much to her protest.  
“I did. I meant to be up and have a meal ready when you came home, but I returned home much later than I’d expected.” He sighed and sat his cheek upon his open palm, eyes searching his sister’s face. In the short years that had passed, she grown, though still not completely. If anything, she’d aged. While her full cheeks still remained somewhat, they now were pallor; her eyes, once wide and bright and ever attentive, were now dull and lined lightly around the edges, with pale purple hollows beneath them. He would perhaps bring that up later. “How was your rotation?”  
“Uneventful.” Was all she said as she placed the book face-down and sat back, drinking from her cup of water, eyes closing as she let it fall down her throat. Her lips pressed firmly together, forming a pale line. “Yours?”  
“Just the same. Only had a couple of children come in, and they only had minor illnesses, and a wandering man with a spider sting. Why they kept me late is beyond me, but...” he shrugged and traced the wood knotting on the table, not looking at her as he spoke. “Not sleeping still?”  
Neithrien’s eyes dragged over to his face, where his gaze did not meet hers. _Still meek as the day he was born, though._ “Not as much as I’d like to be, no.”  
“Is it those dreams, again?” His voice was warm and probing, but she knew that if she confirmed, he would go on about how silly they were and to not let them get to her. “You know they are just dreams, yes? They are not to be, and are only tricks of the nervous mind.”  
_Perhaps I don’t have to say anything about it anymore; he just goes and speaks anyway._ She let her head fall back, eyes cast to the ceiling in exhaustion and exasperation. “This is my first night back after a month of patrol. I am not having this conversation - argument, more like - with you again, Nestedir. You can think and say what you will. I will leave it at that.”  
“It just worries me, Neith-” she held a pale, slender hand up, not even bothering to look at him. He pressed his lips together and took the answer as final for the time being. “Alright then.” He took her dishes and rose from the table, slipping into the kitchen without another word.  
She let a breath of a sigh leave her lips before she too pushed away from the table and strode into her room, book in hand, closing the door behind her. Her body and mind needed the sleep, desperately so, but she dearly wished not to see the things she always did. Repeating images from the first dream, sometimes with new images. The most recent was a line of fallen elves, bloodied and battered under pouring rain and cracking skies. She recognized the uniforms of the soldiers as those of the elves of Lórien, and a great cloud passed over her heart as she thought of it. With a sick sort of jest, she wondered just what horrors would be inflicted upon her that night as she placed a ribbon in the book and sat it beside her, and climbed under the sheets, letting her head rest upon the feather pillow.

_The dead leaves squelched beneath her feet, late winter rain bogging down the grounds that she and everyone else walked across. It was an army of elves, all adorned in the great armor of Mirkwood. Her cold helm dug into her cheeks unpleasantly, and the armor seemed heavy upon her chest but not as heavy as feeling of bile, fear, and dread that rose all together in her throat, eased only by the feeling of a hand squeezing her own. When she looked up, she couldn’t see just who it was, but a feeling of familiarity washed over her just the same. She looked to her left, and they too remained faceless, nameless, but still bore the presence of someone she knew. As she focused, the feeling was all around her, and the tension seemed to lessen, no matter how little so. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath in, smelling the mildew of the rotting leaves, and the remnant of freshly poured rain - and then it changed, gone as soon as it came, replaced by the stench of fresh death and sweat. Her eyes flew open, and no longer was the hand holding hers, but now she was alone, clasping a long, great sword dumbly as she watched the fighting unfold before her. Orcs and uruk-hai from Dol Guldur were clashing blades with her elven company, and motionless, she bore witness to the ruthless slaying of her kinsmen. Her arms were shaking in exhaustion, her spine rattled in angry sobs, and her throat and eyes ablaze with a fury she did not know, yet felt familiar in a horrific way. Slick with blood were her gloved hands, and the hilt of her sword slipped every now and again as she came lashing to and fro at the enemy. She blinked and it was all gone again, replaced now by the vision of the battle field strewn with bodies, both elf and orc. She was on her knees, and her helm cast aside without care, and her heart burned and ached for a reason she could not place. Pain seared in her shoulder and face. Her arms were heavy with something she could not see, her lap wet with blood that was not her own. More orcs were coming towards her with their long, slagging arms and hideous weapons of destruction and death. A queasiness was present in her stomach, but she paid no mind as she felt the burning heat of tears and blood dripping down her face, though she did not know how or why. Screams and cries echoed in the forest about her, and trees were set ablaze for no reason other than to be that way – the filthy way of the maggot-folk that lived under Sauron’s thumb and in his shadow. A hot flash of pain pierced through her side, and there was an arrow coated in rust and red – of blood or paint, she was not concerned, for now blackness edged at her eyes with sobs and wracking screams in her chest. With the weight still in her arms, she felt herself slump, and met eyes with the forest floor and trampling feet before blackness, all-consuming and suffocating, took her._

Neithrien awoke with crusted lines of tears upon her cheeks. Her hands were clammy and cold as she felt along her side, where no arrow protruded, and across her face, where no gash or cut was to be found. Her body felt hollow and worn. This was the first night she’d dreamed of something whole. Not just random images strobing before her eyes; events possibly to come, and it scared her most of all, for it was her to be afflicted with such pain, again. Terror was thick in her lungs as she shuddered with unspoken sobs and unshed tears. From the spot she lay in, she rose, leaning back on her arms and turning her nose to the ceiling, eyes cast sidelong to the window, where the first sliver of sun shone through the trees, trailed closely by looming grey clouds. The heaviness of loss and grief of a loved one was upon her again, but somehow felt stronger than it had been when she last felt such things. Nothing more did she want for it to rid her of its ghastly presence, ever a darkened cloud over her heart.

She had eaten her breakfast slowly, her mind fixed on the events in her dreams, and every last sensation she felt. Still, she could feel the squeeze of her fingers in the hand that held, and the tightening of her slick grip around the hilt of her blade. Her hand flexed underneath the table, trying to keep ahold of the feeling. After breakfast, she had washed. When she had plunged herself under the water, she’d seen again the battle field in its three stages, and the glare of flame and black smoke, and came up gasping for air. When she was cleaned, she set to dressing herself. Thin, dark breeches pulled over her hips, with light boots over her strong legs to match, and with the action she remembered how tired her legs felt, and the weight upon her lap; a long tunic of ruddy orange – the color of the leaves she fell into - , clasped at the column of her slender neck, where she could recall the rawness of her throat with screams and sobs, and the fire in her side from the arrow. Over the tunic, she slipped on a long coat. From there, she fit her belt and bodice over her torso, slid into the hood over her head, and she distinctly felt the pressure of her helm upon her head, and the weight of her armor upon her shoulders. She slid the finger less gloves over her hands, fastening into place the leather bracers. This was all routine by now, and was familiar to her, whenever she’d go out for a hunt. But, as she grasped the handle of her longbow, a shock was felt through her fingers, and she withdrew her hand immediately, before slowly creeping her fingertips back over it again, and slipped it into place over her back, beside her quiver, trembling gently as she did so.  
As she set out, her mind was swimming with the images of her dream, and it plagued her so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation:  
> H'as an cin hi = It's all yours now


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a filler, sorry :/  
> Also I've tried literally everything to try and get the paragraphs indented and it hasn't worked, a03 just hates me, so... yeah

Nestedir had just left the Houses of Healing inside the Elvenking’s great caverns, where his duty lay, and was shaking off the day’s stress from his shoulders. His body was worn from the work, and fingers numb from the amount of sewing of wounds he had to do. The cool late autumn air touched them, soothing the hot tingling in his fingertips. With closed eyes, he let the breeze blow over his face, chilling his cheeks and tossing his hair behind him, relieving him of the stuffy feeling he’d bore all day long.

He made his way lazily to the stables, humming a tune to himself softly, fingers tapping along to the words he knew upon his walking leg. The stables had been made accessible to him, and allowed for him to keep his horse there. Unlike his sister and his best friend, he did not enjoy the rather long trek and often times dangerous from the Caverns to home, and even more disliked going on foot. How Arasson and Neithrien made that journey so often without much complaining was a mystery to him, but he did not wish to partake in order to find out.

The two were a strange pairing, for their personalities contrasted greatly, however they did not ever clash. Always had Neithrien and Arasson been friends, but for a long while they grew apart and did not speak to each other. Only was it when Neithrien joined the Guard did Arasson speak to her again. But, Nestedir had noticed, that when she had, he had become much happier, less reserved. He had known Arasson had an on-again-off-again attraction to his little sister for quite some time, but this time seemed to last longer than the other times. For now, it had lasted twelve years, only six years shy of the length with which Neithrien had joined the service of the king. As strange as Nestedir thought they were, he had also always thought that they would perhaps get married someday. They were close enough when they were young, and close enough now. Perhaps though, if they got married, Nestedir would be forgotten in the dust of the path they cut together.

That was what kept Nestedir always pushing to not let Neithrien stray. She was the last piece of home. He did not treat her well enough to make her want to stay, and he knew that well enough, but he had been trying. If he lost her, that would be the last reminder of the warmth and ferocity of their mother, and the fair and soft heart and words of their father, for Nestedir could not recognize either in himself. While looks served as a reminder of his parentage, his personality was enough to render the rest null and void.

Upon arriving at the stables, he spotted his horse, Banroch, and grinned. Banroch was the first horse ever gifted to Nestedir, and he cherished the horse greatly, and showed him nothing but care and love. The beast was lean and powerful, of pale brown coat, with a thick black mane and tail, and a spot of black that ran down the horse’s muzzle and over his pert ears. He raised his gentle hands to the horse, palms up, who huffed hot breath into Nestedir’s palm appreciatively, as there sat a small apple that he’d picked up from the forest floor. A toothy smile broke from his face as the horse accepted his gift, and stroked the short mane slowly, speaking to him in hushed whispers. He opened the short door and lead him out gently only by a look and a soft hand upon the horse’s neck, pacing softly across the straw-laden floor, before swiftly mounting the horse.

As he rode into the clearing, he spotted his sister and Arasson walking his way, though they paid him no mind, as they were enveloped in their own conversation. Tempted was he to listen in on their conversation when he watched a bright smile splay across Arasson’s fair face, as his stormy eyes settled upon Neithrien, and in turn she passed him a soft grin and a quip that made a chuckle slip from the ellon’s lips, but he decided against it. Riding up to them, he looked down upon their forms, clearing his throat loudly. Neithrien looked up toward him, her hand shielding the light from her eyes. The smile remained on her face as she greeted him.

“Home so soon?” He asked the both of them, who were clad in casual wear instead of their hunting gear.

“There’s no good game out – we couldn’t even catch a squirrel.” Arasson answered, now running his hands over Banroch’s flank and neck.

“It’s these dry spells that make me wish we were still on duty. At least we’d have something to do other, other than roaming about, doing nothing in our time off.”

“Or, in my case, being a stable boy during my leisure hours.” He gave the horse a soft smile and hummed.

Nestedir laughed as he dismounted his horse, motioning for Banroch to take himself to the stables across the glade. “I don’t think that sounds so bad.” He shrugged playfully, looking over his shoulder at Arasson, who arched a dark eyebrow at him.

“Then, by all means, _mellon nîn_ , take over for the month.” said Arasson, and Neithrien laughed at the proposition, thoroughly entertained at the image of her brother doing any sort of dirty work outside of healing. Nestedir merely waved a hand in dismissal as he watched his horse gallop up to the stable maiden who was already there, grooming the horses. She smiled briefly at the horse, speaking to him, before passing her smile and a wave to his owner.

“Suit yourself,” said Arasson, folding his hands behind his back, and craning his neck to look down at his friend. “But I think it could do you well. You’ve been looking a little too slender. I fear a trespasser may mistake you for an elleth.”

Nestedir shot him a poisonous glare, while his sister gave a rather loud snort. He only rolled his eyes at her and swatted her upside the head, to which she grumbled in protest, rubbing the back of her head and fixing him with a fiery glare of her own.

“Arasson will be joining us for dinner tonight.” Neithrien said shortly after, picking at the cuffs of her auburn gown.

“Oh?” Nestedir raised his eyebrows. Unlike his sister was it for her to just invite people into their home. She typically remained very much to herself; reserved and uninterested in the presence of company.

“Alright. When will you come, then?”

“Just after sundown. I’ve got some work to finish up with, and some other things to tend to beforehand, but then I’ll be there.” And with that, he stopped in his tracks, and looked to Nestedir, waiting for his nod of dismissal, and then softly touched Neithrien’s arm in parting, before waving and turning back to the stables. On the way to their home, Nestedir kept a close eye on his sister, who revealed nothing to him through her stone cold countenance.

⧫⧫⧫

The tall ellon now sat on the long couch in the living room, long legs dressed in brown leggings crossed over each other, with a pale, scarred hand resting over his hip which was clad in the red-brown velvet of his tunic, the other wrapped loosely around the handle of his mug which sat upon the low arm of couch, half-filled with mead. His eyes flicked occasionally from the bright flames of the fire in the fireplace to Neithrien, who lounged in her armchair, to his friend. Nestedir was at the other end of the couch, one leg pulled up under the pelt he let lay upon his lap and chin resting upon his knee, telling an account of the patients he’d encountered that day, since they were recounting details from their day’s work, his hands waving about animatedly as he spoke, only occasionally flitting back to his mug to take a slow, small drink of his own mead, for it no longer held the same luster it once did. Neithrien was perched in her chair, legs pulled up onto the seat under the folds of her thick gown, hands in her lap toying with her empty wine goblet. Her eyes were fixed upon the fire as she listened to her brother’s stories with a faint smile ghosting her lips as she tried to pick out the parts she knew he had fabricated for the sake of tale; his voice always went up a touch when he lied, and he cleared his throat after having done the lying. He didn’t know of this game of hers, but Arasson did, and she knew he was playing as well as he listened intently, hiding his own smile behind the rim of his mug, letting his gaze meander back to the elleth, partly to see if she caught on to her brother, and partly because he wished to admire her in the soft glow.

The sky outside was darkening to a deep grey, trapping all below on land under a heavy blanket of clouds, swollen with the threat of snow. Signs of the night time chill to come were apparent through the frost that had begun to glide over the damp forest floor, and over the dormant patches of garden. Nearly barren branches and twigs lashed in the winds outside, creating the only sound to be closely heard, with the exception of the roaring of the river some twenty miles away, and the movement of the nearby elves in their own homes. Closely, she pulled her fur cloak around her shoulders, which was serving as a blanket, digging her fingers into the long, soft furs.

It went quiet in the sitting room, then. The embers of the fire seemed to capture them all, and they sat there in the warmth, with nothing to say that would be right for the moment. Neithrien’s body was tired - though she’d been relaxing as best as she could in her days off, she did not want to sleep, and sitting idle made her anxious. Throughout the day, she had kept herself as busy as possible by tending to her perennials, taking walks, lending a hand at the stables, hunting with Arasson, and pillaging the bookcases in his house for more to read – nothing had yet caught her eye. Fortunately, it had given her respite from the growing nervousness, though it was waning now, for she could feel the shaking in her hands again. _How long must I forego sleep before I can rest peacefully again?_ She guessed that it was no time soon, and with that, her weary heart dropped and lead eyelids drooped down over her burning eyes. It was strange for her to feel exhaustion, but she had become accustomed to it in the tarrying years. Only now the breaths of her company could be heard, and the long sip that Arasson took from his mug - draining the last of it, it seemed, told by the sound of his palm slapping against the side of the cup.

“If you don’t mind my interruption of the silence…” Arasson looked to Neithrien, who turned in his direction and nodded, permitting him to speak more. He cleared his throat and looked to her with a feeling of worry thick in his chest. “And I don’t mean to pry, if this is indeed a sensitive matter, but… Nestedir has brought up that you’ve been having trouble resting for quite some time now…” he trailed off, no more words sufficient enough to finish his sentence. Arasson watched her freeze on the spot, cold eyes rolling slowly towards her brother, and he could feel the tensing of his companion’s body, and he himself felt his bones chill at the look, and was only glad that he was not at the receiving end. Nestedir’s jaw was clenched tight and his eyes were cast downward, where his hands fidgeted nervously with his cup. Neithrien let the glare linger before she let it fall and she straightened her back, looking to Arasson again with a soft yet troubled smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, as he wished they would.

“Yes, I’ve had some trouble sleeping. Just been restless is all.” The look that was in her eyes told of something a bit deeper than just restlessness, and he hoped he wouldn’t have to pry for it. His gaze now bore into hers, and he knew that she knew he was looking for more than the measly answer she had provided. At that, she sighed and sat her cheek in the crook between her forefingers. “Bad dreams now and then. And sometimes, when I’m not sleeping, feelings of… something I can’t quite place come over me.”

“It troubles me to hear that.” Arasson cast his eyes downward, trying to find the right thing to say to her that would perhaps put her at ease. “I know there’s not much to do for it, but let me help you in any way I can if the need ever arises.” His storm grey eyes softened as they lay once again upon the elleth’s face. He wanted nothing more than for her to be healthy and content, and he could read the gratitude in the way her smile became less burdened and sweeter. “May I ask, what these dreams are of?”

Neithrien shifted uncomfortably in her seat, the smile now gone completely, brushing a lock of hair from where it had slipped into her mouth. “Sometimes it’s not all too clear to me. Just feelings of terror or anger or deep dread…” she paused, pressing her lips together in a firm white line, before releasing them and swiping her tongue swiftly over them - a nervous gesture that Arasson had noticed back when they were but children. “And then other times it’s only sounds; dreadful, awful sounds. Or flashing scenes before my eyes. Scenes of fire and war; death and suffering and fear.” She looked deeply troubled, the line between her eyebrows prominent and deep, and her eyes were hard and fixed on her folded hands. Her mouth was pulled down in a frown, and there she looked aged, too old for her short 398 years. “And now I’ve been seeing whole pictures. Events. Some I feel that I, myself, am in. And other times I’m in someone else’s place. Every time, it’s a battle. Every time. And every time ends in a tragedy of sorts, no matter how many different dreams, or different endings."

Arasson’s heart and mind were troubled greatly. He chewed on his lower lip, and his hand itched to reach out to her, if only to provide comfort for her briefly. His eyes shifted to his friend’s, but there he only found a blank expression, for Nestedir held the same thought as always - _this is only a passing thing_. But now, he was telling himself this, if only to keep him together, for this has lasted 34 years now. He didn’t want to face what this meant for his only family, so he shut off any thought that suggested any of what his sister saw or felt was real - for he sometimes felt a despair that resonated throughout the realm, though it never manifested itself in more than a fleeting feeling, which he constantly blamed on perhaps a little too much drink the night before.

Arasson finally settled on words, though he dreaded revealing them, for he felt that they were to be kept hidden. “You feel it too, then?” He asked slowly, leaning towards her, his face carved concerned, and eyes wrought with curiosity and gentleness. Nestedir looked to his friend, frowning deeply. Neithrien’s wide eyes met his with a light of understanding and misplaced excitement. “I’ve felt weighed down these last few years, like an ever growing weight was set on my shoulders, and heavy waters in my chest. Sometimes it casts over me a feeling of deep anguish, and curses me with sleepless nights. I do not recall having dreams like yours, but I do have feelings, and sightless premonitions that terrify me endlessly. Haunted, I find myself feeling, on some nights when I’m alone, and I recall the things I’ve heard.”  
Another wave of thick silence washed over them like a tide, though this time it was not comfortable, nor was it welcome. Nestedir sat nervously in his corner, his mind toiling with fear and regret for what he’d revealed. Neithrien and Arasson sat still, gazing at each other with troubled eyes and hearts heavy with despair, but understanding in both.

“I think something dark is taking hold of Middle-Earth,” Neithrien spoke at last, though it was only a breath, barely to be heard. Her gaze was absent now, as it had found a place to rest beyond Arasson’s face. “And I think it will be upon us faster than we wish or will.”

With those words, a heaviness settled over the three; their breaths were audible in the suffocating silence, and the grim looks painted over their faces were haunting in the dim light of the dying embers. A cold passed through the room, and choked out any feeling of joy that had once been.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was all on her now – wherever these premonitions were leading her, whatever they were showing her, she felt the utmost urgency to learn. The urgency was thick in her blood, and her veins now only thrummed with the desire for knowledge of things that had past, for they too were things to come again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out the chapter note at the bottom :)  
> Leave kudos if you'd like, and I always love getting comments!  
> Also, hit me up or whatever if you want an idea of how these characters look to me/their aesthetic, bc I have so many pinterest boards related to this story... so many.... so........ many.......  
> Enjoy!

_She was on a horse, riding swiftly throughout barren lands, with mountains encasing her on either side. The landscape was flying past her at incredible speeds, and the sound of hooves barely audible was a wonder to her. She could not yet seem to tell what time of day it was, for all around her was dark, but it felt as if she had just awoken from a deep slumber.  
Light kindled in the sky, a blaze of great fire behind dark barriers. Neithrien wondered what dreadful thing she would be forced to witness on this night. She blinked away the biting winds in her eyes, and saw that the moon, almost full, just rising above the shadows, suggesting a new night. The fire still blazed in the black skies, and only then did she recognize it as a beacon. From where, she did not know, for this land was something she had never seen before. And she recognized too that the beacon was not only a kindling fire, but a sign of kindling war. Beacons atop the mountains around her now sprouted, lighting up the night sky, and she felt the horse beneath hasten to impossible speeds._

When she woke, the sky was grey with the first light of dawn. For the first time in years, she felt somewhat rested, though still slightly uneasy. It was not her upon that horse, nor was it her horse, she knew, for she would not ride so confidently in lands she did not know. She wondered briefly who she was dreaming in place of, as she rolled over in bed, blinking away the fog of sleep, the dryness of her eyes, and letting life creep back into her limbs.

_The beacons are lit,_ she thought as she sat up and let her feet rest upon the cold floor. She looked down at her pale toes as they flexed, still lost in thought. _This is of something to come. We would have heard word of beacons being lit, otherwise._

Light on her feet was she, with graceful bounds, and light was she in general, Arasson had noticed, as they walked out into the forest, bows in hand. The lines in her face, though still there, were faint, and her summer-green eyes were bright with relief. He was happy to see her rested, and in this state; it had been much too long. Her voice, sweet and smooth as honey, chimed throughout the forest as they lamented about the Captain of the guard’s rather foul mood during their debriefing. His heart warmed at the ring of her laughter as he shared a joke with her, a smile of his own breaking out over his face.

“If you don’t mind me commenting…” he started when their chatter had quieted once more.

“Why you say that is beyond me, for you will continue to say what you wish whether I grant it or not.” Neithrien rolled her eyes. Arasson only laughed and shrugged innocently.

“Well, then, I was going to say that you’re in a rather pleasant mood. Might I ask what has come over you?” He arched an eyebrow at her.

“I actually slept last night.” She answered, a light seeming to glow from her.

“So, you had no dreams, or anything?” Arasson’s voice was nearing incredulous - almost four decades had she been inflicted with sleepless nights, and only now was she being let to rest?

“No, actually.” She chewed her lip in thought before speaking again. “I had a dream that I was riding on a horse, throughout a plain of sorts, surrounded by mountains, when a beacon was set ablaze, and others about the mountains were lit in answer. A call for aid in wartimes.”

Arasson frowned deeply. “Did it seem like something that was happening now? Or soon?”

“Not now, I know that. We would have heard news.” Neithrien ran her thumb against the carving in her bow. “Soon, perhaps. I can’t say more than that. Much wasn’t revealed to me.”

“All the same, though,” he looked down at her, and she met his eyes with a matching smile. “I’m glad that you got some rest. It’s good to see you so bright again.”

“It’s good to feel bright again.” Neithrien stopped in her tracks, gazing out upon the rushing waters of the river before them. She let out a long, low whistle, to which no answer came back. 

“Seems I’m alone for the time being.”

“Would you like me to keep you company until the rest show up?” Arasson offered, his hand delicately cupping her elbow, a habit he’d formed when they grew close again. He nearly missed the small glance she shot from his hand to his face, an eyebrow cocked with a strange expression upon her face. Quickly he withdrew his hand, a pink flush of embarrassment rising in his cheeks.

“I think I’ve got it from here, but thank you anyway.” As a strong wind blew on their backs, she lifted her long hood over her head, letting it nearly slip over her eyes.

“If you insist.” Arasson sighed through his nose and raised his own hood, locking eyes with her again, checking her face for any sign of objection; there was none. “Would you like to come over to the big group talan with me later? I’m sure the others would like to have us over for a card game, as well.”

A small smile split her lips sweetly, revealing a line of straight white teeth, and the tip of her pink tongue that poked through, as it did whenever she truly smiled. “If we’re not both dead on our feet by the end of today, then yes.”

Near the fork of the Forest River and the Enchanted River, all that was to be heard was the sound of bow twangs, clashing blades, and the gnashing of great pincers in the air. Spiders had decided that the brief relief from the biting cold was the perfect time to advance on the lands, and the Guard was quick to hinder them. From across the bank, a row of seven archers were firing at the spiders with great speed, and on the front lines, several elves were lashing and swiping at them with formidable precision. Every time that one was slain, a putrid smell of venom and decomposed bodies burst into the air, making some retch. 

“And I thought the smell was bad from a distance!” Edenor, one of the new members of the Guard, shouted into the air as he splayed open the swollen belly of a spider. A few laughed briefly before they were drawn back to the task at hand. Neithrien was at his back, both long knives in her steel grip, as she spun and attacked the vermin. A blade landed in one of the many eyes of the foul beast, and a horrid screech came from it as it scrambled back from the elven lady who was chasing after it with both blades at the ready again. An arrow whistled past her head and landed in another eye, then another and another until the spider was half blind. Neithrien came at it with fire in her eyes, and with a great sweep of both blades, the head detached and rolled away, down the small hill they were perched on. A smile of personal victory fluttered over her lips.

For the most part, the oncoming attackers had been dwindled down to about four, which seemed to be well taken care of, but Neithrien ran to help anyway. The arrows no longer sung in the air, as they were not needed, but still the grunts and clashes and screeches echoed throughout the wood, accompanied by the sticky sound of the locking and unlocking joints of the arachnid monstrosities, a sound that made Neithrien’s spine shiver. Out from the usual array of sounds, a shrill scream sounded, and the scuttling of a spider who had scored prey. Her head whipped to the body of the voice. One of the other new guardsmen was lain across the mulch, breathing hard and whimpering loudly. She checked to ensure that the other spiders were still being taken care of before she dashed up the hill, and to the side of the poor soul.

Neldor, brand new to the Guard, lay writhing in pain as his companions flew about him, fighting off the creature that had stung him. Several of the archers from over the river crossed and rushed up to meet him and the two other elves presently at his side. Neithrien, one of the older guards, was holding him upright in her lap, while Edenor made quick work of pushing open his tunic and examining the wound quickly. He spoke quickly to Neithrien, who nodded at whatever he said, and passed him a wad of cloth from a hidden pocket that Edenor pressed into the wound, and a shock of searing pain rushed through his chest. She steadily eased him off of her lap, and cradled his head between her soft hands and long fingers that soothed without even having to move. Over him, she loomed, looking directly into his eyes, which were fogging over with a light mist. 

Neldor knew that she was speaking to him, and some of her words were clear, but the others were muffled as if he were listening to her through a wall.

“Neldor, can you hear me?” Neithrien tapped his cheek and he grunted. That was the best she was going to get, she guessed. “We don’t have a horse to take you quickly to the Houses of Healing, so we’ll have to carry you.” His eyes, which had glazed over, cleared a bit as they widened in panic. She hushed him and stroked her hands down his cheeks to calm him. “It’s alright. You’re stable enough to not be harmed anymore by the venom for the duration of the walk.” Neldor’s breathing evened out and he nodded. “Edenor and I are going to take turns carrying you. Is that alright?” He nodded, though at this point, it seemed he would agree to anything.

Neithrien gently raised the ellon so that she could slide the limp body into Edenor’s waiting arms. She turned to the party, now all unbothered by spiders, as they’d all been slain or retreated, who waited for news or instruction.

“Alaril, Fuirben, and Celobem,” she pointed them all out individually, and beckoned for them to come forward. “Would you all please come with us to act as protection?” The three nodded and followed silently after them as they set off toward the caverns, though their emotions could be felt in the air between them all.

⧫⧫⧫

Nestedir was speaking quietly to another healer when a group of guards strode hastily into the room they were taking their break in. The all too familiar stench of spider venom rolled off of them in waves, accompanied by the smell of sweat and other various unpleasant aromas. He rose from his seat and greeted the party with a bow of the head. Immediately, he locked eyes with his sister, who carried the body of a rather small ellon in her arms. Faintly, he gave her a smile, and she nodded in acknowledgement before she made her way to the cot, easing him gently atop the white sheets. She stood now beside the bed, looking over the body and her brother as he kneeled beside the elf.

“Spiders?” Was the only question Nestedir asked, his eyes now only upon the body before him. Sickly in color was he, with his brown eyes now glazed over, and his body beginning to tremble in the wake of convulsions. Sweat formed upon his grey brow, and dripped into his dark hair.

“This fool wasn’t wearing his maille,” Edenor scoffed as he leaned against the doorway of the room, his long arms crossed stubbornly over his broad chest. Neithrien didn’t speak, only let her hand fly back to smack the other elf in the hollow of his throat. He coughed suddenly and looked down at her, hurt by the action as if he had not been expecting her response.

“Yes, he neglected to put on his maille when dressing this morning. It was only his first day, though. Give him a break Edenor.” He grumbled softly behind her, eyes rolling dramatically. With eyes on her brother’s working hands, she retorted. “I seem to remember you forgot to bring any and all of your weapons on the first day, or am I incorrect?”

Nestedir called upon the other healer to fetch the hot water from the hearth behind them as he strode over to a cabinet filled with herbs and bandages, producing from it a jar of dry athelas. The healer walked to him and held out a bowl of steaming water in which Nestedir dropped three crushed leaves. He returned to the ellon’s side, lifting his head with one arm and with the other hand, he held the bowl close to Neldor’s face, letting the steam wash over him.

The room now felt bright and clean and wholesome, with the sweetness of the leaves now blessing the air with purity. Neldor’s eyes flew open, the mist clearing from them. Words sat in his throat, though he felt that he couldn’t say them. Still sickly he looked, as the athelas only cleared his mind for a moment but did not ward off the creeping venom in his veins. Neithrien sat herself on the cot beside the young elf and pushed the hair back from his sweating face with gentle fingers. Milky brown eyes rolled over to her and she offered him a comforting grin that seemed both motherly and angelic to him.

“I hope you don’t intend to make a habit out of getting injured while on duty.” He let out a weak laugh and shook his head. “You’ll be just fine. Just hold on for a bit, and everything will turn up right.” A weak twitch at the corner of his lips signaled his gratitude. “My brother here will take good care of you. I’ll make sure to have people come and visit you, if I’m not able to. See you soon, hopefully, _hen_.”

That night, Neithrien walked to her talan alone, singing softly to herself along the way. She wished to be able to take off her maille and lay up in the trees for a time. She only shared the flet with two other ellith, Neldor and Arasson. The ellith only interacted with them when they were rationing food, so that eased the worry of unexpected conversation, and Neldor was gone now, for a time. Arasson was known to be talkative after a long day, but he knew well enough when she didn’t want to engage. All she needed was a small meal, and a glimpse of her dreams.

Upon arriving at the tree in which her flet sat, she did not hear the others, and so she quickly made her way up the oak, slipping between the screens that divided the outer elements from the small perch. She hastily shed her chest piece and maille, along with her jerkin and cinched boots, in place of light shoes and a hefty brown cloak. When situated, she pried open the crate where all of the food was stored, and plucked from it a bag of spiced nuts and a leaf of lembas to munch on. She took her findings to a gap in the screens, and sat upon the outer lip of the talan, lightly kicking her legs out as she observed the night sky. There were no stars to be seen, and the crescent moon was hidden behind a veil of thick clouds. A wind passed through the treetops, chilling and whining as it whipped through the air, bringing on it the scent of rain-to-come and musk. 

Neithrien took another bite of lembas before looking down at her arms, where she could see blossoming bruises from the fights earlier in the day, and they ached when she ran a gentle finger over them. _I need a bath,_ she thought, scratching at the small amount of dirt that collected on her fingernails.

It was quiet for a time, with nothing but the wind and the far-off murmurs of the elves in the wood. Times like this were pure and lovely to Neithrien, but dangerous for her. These were the times in which she was often plagued by daydreams – her mind would meander down its endless corridors, and stumble into the darkest deeps, where visions would flash before her, and she would hear wails so piercing it made her vision fade. She could feel it happening now, against her will, as she got brief glimpses of corpses, and long trails of Eldar dressed for leave.  
A blessing came to her then, just as a cry wound up in her mind, in the form of a tall ellon with a warming presence.

“I have brought tidings of fresh meat, stolen from the supply of the higher-up’s!” Arasson greeted her cheerily before she was even in his line of sight. Neithrien looked back to him, watching fondly as he set a few leather-bound packages on the wooden surface of the flet before beginning to shed his gear. She hummed appreciatively and rose from her spot, entering the cordoned area, and stepping up beside him. He turned his bright eyes to her and gave her a soft smile, handing her a hunk of the dried supply.

“Thank you.” She barely whispered, sitting again on the floor, crossing her legs before her, and biting into the dried meat.

“It’s not a problem…” his eyes searched her face with a hint of worry. She looked haggard, a stark contrast to what he’d seen that morning, with her hair down from its braids, and the hollows beneath her eyes visible even in the dying light. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so worn. How _un-elvish of you_.”

Neithrien huffed out a laugh as she ate. “I am convinced I would be just fine now if I had not been so plagued by… everything.”

He did his best not to bring up the arguments he had been hearing between her and his friend. It wasn’t something he ever intended on listening in on, but they always insisted on shouting. 

“That likely has something to do with it.” Arasson hummed as he chewed thoughtfully, before abruptly changing the topic. “I heard that Neldor got injured during an attack.”

“Mm, yes.” Neithrien was worried slightly about it. She hardly knew the hen, but she felt responsible for him. “First week on the job, too. Forgot his maille. Got stung right in the chest.”

“Ouch,” Arasson rubbed his sternum absently. “Will he be alright?”

“I assume so. Nestedir is taking care of him, so at least I know he’s in good hands.” Arasson couldn’t help but pick up on the way she said her brother’s name with a barbed edge. “We’ll just ask to have Edenor cover for him as well.”

“I’ve been thinking, Edenor didn’t work nearly enough. He needs something to put that attitude into.” They both chuckled softly.

The night carried on with the two eating and sharing exchanging stories from the day. It ended with her rising from her seat and brushing her fingertips gently across Arasson’s shoulder, earning the slightest of shivers from him, which she did not perceive, much to his thanks. She retired then, laying on her side, head propped up against her folded arm, and let her mind drift off.

_This night, she was herself, and she didn’t know whether to be pleased or frightened by this knowledge._

__

__

_Alone, she sat in front of a burning fire, whose flames licked high into the sky. On the ground lay a thick blanket, with a rolled up blanket on top, acting as a makeshift pillow, and her thick fur cloak was the blanket to cover her. In her hand, she twirled a sturdy stick, with which she stoked the fire with. Aside she, a horse she didn’t recognize grazed peacefully. Atop her lap was a hunk of lembas, partially in its leaf wrapping._

_In her heart, she felt a cloud that chilled her to her bones, and made the heat of the fire upon her face seem bitter. The feeling of loneliness was great upon her, and the fear of what was to come of the journey she seemed to be on, and fear of the war that was surely to be. Her greatest anxiety, she felt, was that she did not know when the war would kindle. It could be any time, and if she were gone from her home while they were being attacked… she didn’t think she’d ever be able to forgive herself. But combating that feeling, was also the acceptance that she needed to be gone from Mirkwood. What the need to leave was, exactly, she did not know, but only that it was necessary. In the back of her mind, she had the beginnings of an idea - that maybe she could visit other realms she knew to be friendly with elves and beg to whomever she could that they be ready to heed a call to war. Perhaps Gondor would provide the most aid… that is, if they weren’t directly affected. And perhaps this journey was for naught and would come to nothing but years of wandering and idling while her people suffer in darkness._

_All the same, it was worth the effort, and whether or not she could rouse five or 500 mattered not. Only that she tried as best she could, and came back with at least something.  
Or nothing at all._

Afternoon was falling to evening as Neithrien walked from the banks of the Forest River, her strides lazy and slow. A sudden headache had appeared an hour earlier, and it pounded heavily at her skull – it was no ordinary headache, for with it she saw flashes from dreams in earlier days, when they were much darker than now, and despair came crashing down in her mind. She had been told to leave for the day by fellow members of her troop, when they noticed that she could not hold her bow steady and her face was pinched in a constant wince. Reluctantly, but later with relief, she had been escorted by a fellow guard, until they reached the river, where she told him she could make it safely to her flet from there.

However, her shared talan was not where she was headed; while she did wish to rest her head and her eyes, she felt the growing need to learn more about her dreams. Specifically the one where she was riding through a field, enclosed by looming expanses of mountains, with the flames alight in the sky, blazing like eyes upon the peaks. Just slightly northwest of the station by a few miles or so was Arasson’s home, which he shared with his mother and father. Arasson lived by himself in a small but cozy hut he had built some fifty or so years ago, that butted up against the vast trunk of a great oak tree, in which a small house upon a talan, sat in the high branches. Unlike the telain of the guards, a concealed stairway between the hut and the talan was what connected the two and made for easy passage to and from.

She had taken to sprinting through the woods. Though it made the pounding in her head worse, and she stumbled a few times because of it, she reached the home in record speed – just as the sky was tinging with early afternoon light. Up ahead some few yards, the hut could be seen. It was made of simple pine logs that were aged by the years and weather, but still looked welcoming. The door was simply a plaited screen of red, with a space for long windows cut out on either side of the screen. From where she stood, Neithrien could not see the talan, but could easily hear the shuffling about by the two elves that lived there. As she neared the home, she let down her hood and sweetened the look on her face so as to not seem confrontational when she called from the doorway.

A voice responded, though the words were not clear to her. In a matter of moments, the plaited screen was pushed aside, revealing a tall and lean figure. Thalith, his name was, father of Arasson. His son looked a great deal like him, with the exceptions that Thalith’s face was longer with a more square jaw, and dark green eyes. And unlike his son’s pale gold hair, Thalith’s was as golden as the sun, and shone just as brightly. A smile of friendliness passed over his face as he saw the form of Neithrien, one that he knew his son held so dear to himself. But then a look of deep concern and fear washed over him as he also noticed she was still in her uniform.

“Neithrien, my dear – has something happened to my son?” His voice was low and rang deeply like a gong, but was pleasant to the ears all the same.

“No, Thalith,” she gave him a gentle smile. “I was relieved early, and I’ve come to ask to borrow some more books, if that isn’t a problem?”  
Warmth spread over Thalith’s smooth and lovely face, and he stepped aside, waving out an arm in a gesture of welcome. “My dear, you are always welcome to borrow books. It is never a problem.” They strode down the short expanse of the hut side by side. “But, you may as well stop referring to what you do as _borrowing_.” Neithrien’s brow furrowed, and Thalith laughed. “It is more like you _pillage_ my shelves and then never return what you’ve taken.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t ever mean to keep them from you –” Thalith’s laughter cut her off, and he turned to her.

“You have no reason to apologize, Neithrien.” He led the way up the steps into his own home. “Rarely do I have use for the books anymore, for I’ve read them over a plenty few times. And, I know that when you take my books, they are in good care.”

Neithrien only hummed in response, taking her last step up before entering the house of Thalith. A long daybed that looked to be brand new was stretched out across a hand-woven rug, and across from it was a simple couch which Mithrílbes, Arasson’s mother, was sat, loom in hand. Her bright eyes cast upwards towards Neithrien, and a brilliant smile stretched across her lovely face. Arasson too bore a striking resemblance to his mother, for her face was shorter and more slim and round, and her nose was perky just as her son’s. Her hair was white as pearls, and her eyes were of molten silver that sparked with a motherly tenderness and a wisdom beyond her years. Mithrílbes rose and strode over to the elleth, cupping her hands around Neithrien’s cheeks and looking down upon her before planting a soft kiss on her cheeks.

“It has been far too long since I’ve seen you, dear!” Mithrílbes’s voice chimed out, and a soft laughter trickled out as Neithrien giggled at Arasson’s mother’s enthusiasm. Indeed, it had been quite some time since they’d seen each other; every time that Neithrien had found herself in the home, Mithrílbes was out and about, either wandering through the forest, or out to purchase fabrics for her crafts.

“It has, but I’ve gotten to see you now!” Neithrien gave Mithrílbes a brief hug before she turned away and drew her gaze upon the great bookshelves across the room. Thalith passed her by, gently touching her shoulder as his way of permitting her to _pillage._

To several places, her wandering eyes were cast. So many books about everything and anything – from historical readings and biographies to great tales of times past and stories of heroes and adventure. With delicate fingers, she touched the soft leather-bound spines of the books, reading the names of them carefully as she went. She knew that somewhere in this collection there was a book of the history of Middle-Earth, but she did not remember where she last saw it, until her eyes darted up two shelves. It was a deep red in color, and nearly as thick as the flat of her palm, and with ease and delicate hands, she pulled it from the shelf, letting it rest at her feet while she looked on.

For hours it seemed she was there, plucking and pulling. Some books she would find, she’d stand and skim over a few chapters before deciding whether or not she wanted it. In the end, she’d found several books that caught her eye; _Taur-e-Ndaedlos_ , a history of Mirkwood and how it came to be, and another on the history of the Rhovanion regions. Another two that were simply stories and legends and poems – a break for her amongst the sea of history. A small book she’d also found; it was only a collection of brief histories from the western regions of Eriador, but some of the topics and places mentioned seemed fascinating to her, though mainly because the other did not have an elvish name – it seemed much more like a perian name, and Neithrien had found she was always open to reading the writings from other lands and races so as to get a broader view of the world about her and its peoples, even if she could not leave and explore them for herself.

Thalith had pointed out to her a book bound in green and brown that he thought may interest her, for it held within it legends of the Rohirrim, and the lands of Rohan itself. She had been enamored by that book, and looked at the rough sketches inside of it for quite some time before she flipped to a page that captured a vast field of long grass and mountains and a river in the distance. The mountains had seemed vaguely familiar to her; and then it hit her like a boot to the chest. Her dream from days passed – the mountains on fire. Hastily, she closed the book and set it in her pile, before she shot up and immediately began to grope along the shelves again, until her hands found a bound stack of maps of Middle-Earth that Arasson had made a few years ago (he’d never travelled outside the borders of the forest, but he liked to practice his drawing skills by mimicking other cartographers’ works). Speedily, she flicked through it, checking to see if it had all of the variations – it did, and she was pleased with herself for finding it on the first go.  
It was then that her gaze flicked up to the shelf in front of her, and locked on a great, dark, and greatly aged book. The binding was of smooth black leather that had begun to fade and peel from the years, and was bound by dark red thread that had started to fray. The title was printed on the spine in a dark gold, but the title she could not read, for it was so worn that only a few letters remained. She slid it gently out from its place on the shelf and felt it in her hands. Her slender fingers ran over the cover and up the spine. The book itself looked ancient, but felt new – though new in elven years was perhaps not something to go by. Neithrien turned to Thalith, who was sitting on the day bed with a book of his own.

“Thalith…” she called out, head turned toward him. He looked to her and frowned. “What is this book? I can’t read the title.”

Thalith strode over to her and held out his large hand, into which Neithrien dropped the book. With a moment of silence, Thalith examined it; holding it to his eyes where he tried to read the title, before flipping up the cover and through the first few pages, when a light grew in his eyes.  
“This is a book that had been passed down through friends and family of ours for quite a few years. How it landed in our ownership, I am not sure, but…” he handed the book back to Neithrien, his eyes dark with something she could not name, but recognized it, for she had borne that look many times before. “It is of the Second Age, the rise of Sauron, the War of the Last Alliance, and his fall. If you’re going for history, this is rich in it, and quite worth the read.”

Neithrien only nodded and placed the book in her pile. She knew, whether consciously or no, that Sauron or some other dark power was to do with the looming darkness overcoming her and the peoples of Middle-Earth, for no one else could possibly wield so much blackness and hatred. And those attentive enough knew that the great shadows and corruption in Mirkwood since the beginning of the Third Age had much to do with the forces in Dol Guldur that brewed there. _The Necromancer_ , some had called him is passing whispers; he who had dwelled and brought such fell things to the land – it was and continued to be speculated that perhaps he was an agent of Sauron, or one who took after him in his discord. But others who were old enough to remember the days of Sauron’s power and malice knew what they saw, and what they saw was the hand of Sauron rising again, stretching his long arm out from the shadows and coming to reclaim what he thought to be his. The darkness in Thalith’s eyes told that he knew, even if Neithrien could not yet recognize it.

After a moment more of sorting through, she thanked Mithrílbes and Thalith for their willingness to lend, and they gave her a bag which she put her books into, and with another bout of thanks and farewells and promises to visit soon, she made her way down the steps, through Arasson’s home, and outside, towards the far northeastern edge of the glade, where her home was nestled, setting off to put away her stash before returning to the woods.

When she arrived, she went straight to her room and dropped the bag. She took out the books on Mirkwood and Rohan, and the legends, but left the others in her bag; if Nestedir were to find them, she did not know what he would do, but she did suspect that it would be unsavory at best. So, she tucked the other concealed books between her writing desk and her bookshelf, hidden in the black cloth. Whether or not Nestedir thought her dreams were silly ravings, she knew that there were things that needed answering, and she wouldn’t get far trying to rely on others. This was all on her now – wherever these premonitions were leading her, whatever they were showing her, she felt the utmost urgency to learn. The urgency was thick in her blood, and her veins now only thrummed with the desire for knowledge of things that had past, for they too were things to come again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation:  
> Hen - child/kid
> 
> Other nonsense:  
> So, apart from my Lord of the Rings stuff (and by stuff I mean literally just this, so far), I do enjoy a bit of creative writing. Along with this creative writing, I'm very fascinated by our species, space, science, and anything wildly complex, so it's a given that I LOVE the "Humans are Weird" type stuff. With this in mind, to all of the like... 2.5 people that actually read this, would you also be interested in me writing a series of Humans Are Weird shorts, where I dissect and evaluate human behavior through the lens of aliens/other-worldly life forms? Don't be afraid to say no.  
> \- Niphredil


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I believe that something is supposed to happen." She dragged her hands over her face before steeping her fingers under her chin, leveling her voice. "I believe that something, whatever it may be, is trying to tell me that my presence is no longer needed here. That I'm supposed to go on and follow the path that is laid before my feet. And I fear that if I do not set upon it soon, troublesome things may occur."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Felt like updating a lil sooner, so here ya go  
> Also, things are finally starting to happen. yayyyyyy  
> Leave a kudos if you feel up to it, and I always enjoy comments/suggestions/whatnot  
> Enjoy!  
> (P.S. Happy Holidays!!)

“Neithrien, for the last time,” Nestedir barked from where he stood in the kitchen, leaning his back against the counter with the bridge of his nose pinched between his thumb and finger. His composure was beginning to slip, and it was easy to see now, as his shoulders squared and tensed, and his face was screwed into a frustrated grimace. “These dreams are nothing! They’re just the workings of your imagination! You’ve always had this problem, neth! Your mind can’t handle being idle so it creates excitement that throws you into a panic!” He knew he was spouting lies, but he couldn’t let his little sister leave him out of the blue to go on some quest of self-discovery.

“It isn’t a _quest_ , Nestedir!” She shouted from the sitting room, where she sat in her armchair, elbows planted firmly on her thighs and her head between her hands. The dreams, though some had turned dark once more, and haunted her day in and day out, had been far more revealing of things to come for the peoples of the land. For weeks before this day, she had mostly been dreaming of traveling with a company of what she felt to be friends. Those dreams were woven with feelings, heavy and warm like a quilt over her dreaming mind. Feelings of mirth and love; familiarity and family, which was something she’d craved for far too long without having it. The throng of friends had started small, just herself and two others, who remained unknown to her, and then over the days, as her dream-self traveled the lands of Middle-Earth far from her own home, more friends were made, and some tagged along, until she was surrounded now by a family she had chosen. And this chosen family also felt how she did; darkened souls and hearts, troubled greatly with the tidings of brewing war, and the oncoming darkness that seemed to suffocate them all. Just how Neithrien knew all of this, she was unsure. The words were never spoken clearly - in her dreams, all the voices sounded as if they were coming from underwater, so she could not make out words or tone, but could still tell there was conversation - but the feelings and thoughts were conveyed easily. She knew that this was what was to come for her, and that she must act sooner rather than later.

“Then _what_ is it?” Nestedir growled, slumping forward with a sigh.

“I can’t tell you, exactly!” Neithrien yelled back to him, her eyes, burning with anger, were fixated upon the armor she had dressed herself in - she had planned to leave for her rotation early. So much for that. “I don’t even know. All I can tell you is that it is supposed to happen.” She dragged her hands over her face before steeping her fingers under her chin, leveling her voice. “I believe that _something_ , whatever it may be, is trying to tell me that my presence is no longer needed here. That I’m supposed to go on and follow the path that is laid before my feet. And I fear that if I do not set out upon it soon, troublesome things may occur.” _As if they aren’t, already._

Nestedir was silent, as he kept his stare heavy upon his sister, who now stood tall with her bow in hand. “You can’t go out into a land you know nothing of, based on - on a _whim_ , on a _fae feeling!_ ”

“And why not?” She turned toward him now, and her face was stern and cold; to him, she looked as if she was supposed to be a statue of some great warrior, revered in Elder Days, instead of just his little sister. “Because you’re too afraid to heed the warning you also feel? Because you’re not secure enough to support yourself? Because, to feel important, you have to have a subordinate to wait on you and follow your every command?” Her voice, which usually was gentle and sweet, was now harsh and bit like the winter cold. Nestedir did not speak, only stared at her with wide eyes and a gaping mouth. “I’m sorry that Adar’s passing struck you so hard with this much grief for this long, but perhaps it is time for you to leave it in the past and grow up, and let the rest of us live.” And with that, she disappeared out the door, leaving a gust of bitter, frosty air behind her.

⧫⧫⧫

The two elves crouched on the banks of the Enchanted River, huddled closer for warmth. In addition to their normal garb, they’d been given thick cloaks of many different color thread, so when they turned a certain way, their color changed, making the wearers blend in to their surroundings. Presently, Neithrien had both the long hood of her armor pulled over her head, and the thick hood of her cloak pulled down close to her cheeks. Arasson beside her had wrapped the fabric around his whole body, only his pale face and pale hair peeking out from under the cloak.

“Lovely weather, wouldn’t you say?” Arasson said, letting out a huff of breath that blew up in a cloud of silver mist. Neithrien laughed through her smile and scooted closer to her friend, her hands becoming weak and almost useless in the cold, which was something that was rather unfortunate for a Guard on duty.

“I’d say that I’d much rather be by a warm fire with maybe some tea and a book in hand.” Neithrien had only been thinking about that ever since they had stopped at their station beside the intersection of the Enchanted River and the Elf Path, with her group around her, all huddled for warmth, for it was unusually cold this day, and the Elves were actually greatly affected by it, unlike most other chilly occasions.

“Stop talking about warmth.” Arasson said through chattering teeth, a frustrated frown across his fair face. “It’s making me quite mad that I _don’t_ have that right now.” Neithrien chuckled and tucked her face into the warm collar of her tunic, a muffled _‘I’m sorry’_ coming from beneath fabric. Arasson sniffed loudly and looked to the sky with squinted eyes, the dread of possibly seeing snowflakes written clearly over his face, and his red ears strained to perhaps hear for falling snow he could not see. “I heard you and Nestedir fighting again this morning.”

“Oh, I’m sure even Thranduil heard it from the caverns.” She snorted loudly, muttering shortly to herself.

“Same thing?” Arasson asked, to which he received only a nod and a grim look out toward the motionless forest before them. “I wish I could say that he’ll come around, but we both know him…”

“He’s stubborn and set in his ways, and can’t accept that I’m not willing to dance at his command.” She said, her tongue sharp and lashing. Arasson was frightened by the sudden change in tone, but persisted anyway, for he knew it helped her think things through, when they spoke about such matters.

“He just doesn’t want to lose you, Neithrien.” said Arasson. “And while I don’t understand, nor do I approve of how he goes about trying to keep you tethered, I do have to say that I agree with him in some ways, just as I agree with you.” Neithrien turned her eyes to him, asking for elaboration. “Yes, you are your own being, and you ultimately have control over where you go and who you _conspire_ -” they both chuckled. “-with. And, yes, I understand the feelings that you have about this matter, I really do, and how important this really is. But, if you were my only family left, I wouldn’t want to let you go off how you want to - off to go on this journey. I don’t even have to be related to you to say that if you left, I’d be greatly saddened and troubled by the loss.”

She was silent, save for the heavy breaths she pushed through her nose. Thoughts jumbled themselves in her head, and her tongue was heavy with so many things she wished to say, but couldn’t. At least, not now. Not to him. “I know all this, _mellon_ , but all the same. I’m running out of time. I can feel it. Urgency above all else is what I feel…”

“All I can beg of you is to stay. Please” said Arasson, fixing her with a deep gaze that only left her nodding slightly, before humming to himself as his eyes were drawn up to the trees, now barren of all life, where a set of hidden archers were perched like robins upon the frail branches of the Beech. They turned towards the pair and spoke:

“There is nothing this way, and I can see that our replacements are headed this direction with much speed. If you feel the utmost need to move about and travel to our next station, please feel free to go ahead of us.”

Neithrien only nodded in response, her lips staying tight and a hot breath pushed through her nose. Arasson bumped her with his shoulder, a light, concerned frown etched into his brow. She huffed and turned her head slowly towards him. “I don’t think I can move, Arasson.” He let out a loud peal of ringing laughter, as did she, and the chimes echoed throughout the wood.

⧫⧫⧫

The end of the weeks came faster than anticipated, and soon all the Guard were marching. Together, with the rest of their troop at their sides and trail, they walked through the forest, on their way back to report to their captain. The further from the river they got, the warmer it seemed, if only by a small bit. All of them had joints that were slow and sticky from the cold, long, and treacherous walks from the rivers, to only a few miles short of the Old Forest Road. Up the long stone steps to the residence of the Elvenking and others of the forest, the group traveled towards the great green doors of the cavern entrance, their tall figures seemingly shrunken by the vast and lengthy pillars that climbed up, up, up. Through the dimly lit Main Hall they traveled, followed by a few servants and some palace guardsmen on their way to report to their own captain, paired up in a file line, posture straight and hoods back to reveal the faces of those who were approaching, with bows heavy in hand. Past the Main Hall lay a great room. It was tall and reached up endlessly. The stone walls were decorated with the green banners of Mirkwood, and covered by decorative drapery of darker greens and browns and shimmering gold. In a half circle sat layered stone benches, like that of an amphitheater, where the Guard was supposed to sit during report and debriefings. At the front of the room was a banner, greater in size than the others, in a lighter green with golden piping, and in golden thread, the crest of Thranduil was embroidered. Before it sat a great desk of knotty oak, stained to match the drapery, and behind it sat the captain of the guard in a great chair, colored by warm green cushions and a fur robe draped over the back. The Captain sat there, with hands folded and resting over his lips, and his dark eyes searching the maps of the forest that were strewn about the desk, and a long, brown quill and black ink pot lay neatly on a single clear space, atop a stack of parchment. The throng strode inside soundlessly, finding spaces to sit upon the benches, where they waited their turn to report.

One by one, each leader made their way to the desk, where Faror, the captain, asked them of their findings and other such matters. The line seemed to go on and on for ages, and Neithrien sat bored, with her chin in her hand. Arasson matched her pose almost identically, with eyes half-lidded and lolling from side to side, his foot tapping in the idle.

Finally, they were ready to go, and Alaril, their leader, stood from her seat. There, she left her bow, and walked with her arms folded behind her back and her chin high, eyes meeting Faror’s. 

“What is your report?” Faror spoke with a clear, low voice that echoed throughout the room. He was close to turning 4,000 years, and had worked in service of the King of Mirkwood since he had been only 130 years, when the forest had seen lighter days. About him was an air of clear superiority, though he used it in the wrong way at times, and it made him seem like a petulant child. For his 4,000 years, he was far from wise.

“The Elf Path was clear of any trespassers or danger, and along the banks of the Forest and Enchanted Rivers, there were no trespassers, and only a pair of spiders were found wandering, and they were quickly slain, Sir.” Alaril said, her voice ringing in the great room. “We were met by the other guards that had been surveying the Old Forest Road, and told us of the three Orcs who were scouting it. Our replacements have settled in for the evening along the road, and we now ask of you to relieve us for the night, Sir.”

Faror hummed to himself and gazed down at his maps, making sure that the report matched with what he had been told by the others, his long fingers folded atop his breast as he listened, and examined the faces of everyone in the group, before he gave a flick of the hand. At the gesture, smiles broke from their faces as they rose to leave. Neithrien, however stayed behind, still sitting down, with her bow across her lap. Arasson caught it before he turned to leave, and stepped nearer to her.

“Is everything alright, _milui_?” His voice was low in her ear, but a breath, and his hand gentle over her upper arm as he bent toward her, searching her face with probing eyes that had changed to resemble a crackling storm. She flashed him a bright smile and placed her own hand gently upon his chest, pushing him away kindly.

“Worry not.” She assured him. “Leave now, before sundown and the frost comes. I’d hate to find you frozen and dead in the forest because you didn’t heed my words.” Arasson only rolled his eyes and rose from his bent position, then turned on his heel, leaving the room quickly so as to give the Captain and Neithrien privacy.

He peered at her from across the room. “What might I help you with, Neithrien?” his voice was quieter now, but still held the power it had when he addressed Alaril.

She stood now, with one arm behind her back and the other at her side, with which the hand clasped her bow, and thumbed again the groove dug into it by hundreds of arrows shot again and again – at this touch, she remembered fondly her time in the trees during the warm summer months, firing volleys with the close friends in her troop, and it hurt her just a bit. Before him, she stood, and looked into his dark eyes with a commanding gaze of her own, and spoke out in a clear voice. “Sir, if it is you who I must ask of this-” his brow furrowed at the words, trying to guess what she was to say next. “I am asking that I be relieved of duty as a Guard of the Woodland realm.”

Deep lines formed in his forehead, and his mouth pulled in a strange way, his face now twisted sourly. “Why?”

She licked her lips, which were suddenly dry. “There is family in Lothlórien that have reached out to me, and asked for my presence, for they have never met me, and only heard word of me through my father. I feel that my time in this realm is up, and that I am to migrate back to my family.” She heaved a nervous breath. “In short, I am leaving Mirkwood.”

Faror was quiet for a while, looking contemplatively at her, the words forming clear in his eyes as they bore into hers. Finally, after an uncomfortably long pause, he spoke: “Then I take it in some fifty years, you’ll be asking leave of Lórien’s guard to migrate to Rohan?” A glint flashed in the captain’s eyes, and a twitch of the lips revealed his jest. “I am correct in my knowledge that your mother is of the Rohirrim?”

A smirk pulled gently at the corner of Neithrien’s mouth, though her heart panged at the use of present-tense in matters concerning her mother. She schooled her face back into its composed state. “She _was_ , yes. And perhaps, given time, I will feel the call to my mother’s land - if they’ll have me.”

Another silence settled in the room for a moment, the thoughts in Faror’s head almost audible, before he again spoke with finality. “So it is, then.” He stood straight now, hands planted atop his desk, chest out and chin high, his countenance now commanding, though there was really no one to command. “Neithrien of Taur-e-Ndaedlos, Daughter of Ârnoth of Lothlorien, it is that I, Faror of Mirkwood, Captain of the Guard of the Woodland Realm, relieve you of your duties as a Guard under the King Thranduil.”

“Thank you, Sir.” She bowed her head, her face still blank, but not cold. _Is it really that easy?_ She asked herself

“I will say that seeing you go saddens me, and will sadden the others when they hear.” Faror touched his hand to his heart in a kindly gesture. 

“I am sure of it, Sir. But, may I also ask of you not to reveal my parting?” she cleared her throat, and chose to ignore the suspicious glance he gave her. “Only for the fact that few people know, and I do not wish for my departure to be an ordeal. I only wish to slip out when I can and head to my new home.”

“Then I will respect this wish of yours, with the exception of reporting this news to our King, for he must know as well before you depart.” Neithrien nodded in understanding. “My only wishes for you are that you return the armor and weapons to me before you leave, and that you take care of yourself when you have gone from this forest. Middle-earth should not lose a soul as pure and fiery as yours, Neithrien.”

“I will, Sir.” She showed him a friendly smile. “And, thank you, again, for having me in your command. It was an honor to serve beside you for the few years. I wish there were more for me to give.”

“I, too, wish the same, but wishes are just as they are.” Faror sighed. “Now, please, go now and rest at home.”

Again, she bowed, before turning and striding with sweeping steps and a lightness in her chest, out of the room. Those who passed her as she walked down the Main Hall grinned, and admired what looked to almost be a glow about her. She glided softly down the steps of the entrance, and veered to her right, making her way to the stables for the Guard, where she kept her horse, Sírdal.  
He greeted her with a lightness of his own, and tramped softly upon the ground as she fed him small apples from a pail. After his quick snack, she mounted the white horse, and gently tapped his flank with her feet. With that, he spurred to life, and let out a loud huff before galloping swiftly out of the lands. Quick winds of biting frost in the ever-darkening evening blew past Neithrien’s cheeks, which were buried as best they could be in Sírdal’s dark mane. Her hair was blown back from her face, along with her hood, and tangled in the brisk winds. Loud gallops thudded against the ground, and splashed in the river as it crossed, sending flecks of chilled water splattering across the peredhel’s face, but she laughed anyway.

She had reached home, and found only the low light of a fire on the hearth could be seen in the window. All else was dark and quiet. With a soft word, she sent Sírdal on his way, and padded softly to the door of her home. Inside, no sound but the snores of her brother were to be heard. _He’s come home early._ As quiet as she could be, she craned her neck to see if there was anything above the fire. To her delight, there was a kettle of boiling water waiting for her. With the poker, she lifted the pail from its place in the fire, and lugged it to the kitchen, where it was left to cool in her absence. With haste, she disrobed and redressed in her shift and night robe before stepping out again.

Quick fingers procured a cup and leaves for tea, and light feet strode to put out the fire while the tea brewed. As the fire dimmed and died to only a few glowing embers, she collected only her tea, for hunger did not strike her at the time, and made her way to her chambers. There, when the door was closed and the curtains drawn, she sat at her writing table, and took her quill of crow feather from its wooden box, pinching the large ink bottle as well. Before her, she lay a thin book bound by soft brown leather and green twine, a host of brightly flickering candles, and her quill in hand, bobbing and flicking as she wrote.

_**Girithron** _   
_**Sixth Day** _ ********

****_**I have now been relieved of duty from the Guard. All I have to do is evade the attentions of Arasson and Nestedir, and I will be in the clear. In a day and a half, I shall be packed for my journey. At midnight, I should be leaving, and adorn Sírdal with a packed saddle, though I hate to burden him so, for he was not meant to carry such a thing. In fact, I still must acquire a saddle. May have to steal one from the stables. Food is the hardest thing to pack, I’ve come to find, for I do not know how long I will be gone, but I also do not intend to be coming back for a very long time. How does one cook for a time such as this? Hopefully, I will come across elvellon who are willing to aid me.** _   
_**In Lothlorien, I already have family whom I know would be ready to receive me. Perhaps even those that are not of kin would receive me, all the same. Hope is all I can do now, and hope shall bring me through.** _ ******** ** **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Neth = sister; little sister  
> Fae = soul  
> Adar = father  
> Milui = friendly love (like, hey I love you, but as a friend???)  
> Taur-e-Ndaedlos = the fancy ass name for Mirkwood  
> Girithron = Sindarin December  
> Elvellon = elf-friend; friend of elves  
> Peredhel = half-elf


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She did not know how long the snow would fall, and she did not know how long it would take for the snow to melt; all she knew was that she could not be long in setting out, as time was now slipping. Neithrien could not travel in the snow, for she would leave a trail to be followed, and that could not happen. So, now she paced in her room, arms folded across her chest, and her brow furrowed in deep thought. A new plan was to be devised, but she had to think of it quick, as she now could hear the footsteps of her brother as he prepared for work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short one

Snow had fallen that night while Neithrien slept. She awoke to the lands covered in the packed white, and had deemed snow her worst enemy in the few minutes she had been awake. She did not know how long the snow would fall, and she did not know how long it would take for the snow to melt; all she knew was that she could not be long in setting out, as time was now slipping. Neithrien could not travel in the snow, for she would leave a trail to be followed, and that could not happen. So, now she paced in her room, arms folded across her chest, and her brow furrowed in deep thought. A new plan was to be devised, but she had to think of it quick, as she now could hear the footsteps of her brother as he prepared for work.

From her room, she met Nestedir in the hall with a soft look upon her face; a mask to cover the bitterness that had clouded her. Nestedir passed her the same expression, but with a slight frown.

“Is it already time for your four days off, _neth_?” He asked.

“Indeed it is. Time flew on this last rotation, didn’t it?” Neithrien watched as her brother nodded slowly, a tick in his forehead visible, so she ran her thumb over it to soothe the lines. “Are you off to the Healing Houses, _hanar_?”

“Yes, I’ve just packed my meal for the trek.” A deep look still lay upon his face. “Are you alright, Neithrien? You look… brighter than usual. Did your fantasies not trouble you?”

She felt an irritated twitch in her brow at the word her brother had chosen to use. “No, they did not, thankfully.” She caught her tongue just before it poked out from behind her lips. “I think you must be off to your duties and I to my rest, don’t you think?”

Nestedir eyed her a moment longer with a glint of suspicion in his dark eyes, before it disappeared and he quietly sighed. “I suppose so. I’ll see you soon, Neithrien. Rest well and easy.”

“Thank you.” She said in turn, and watched her brother leave the house before she let her mask fall and turned briskly back to her room and the matter at hand. There was no idea in her head of what she was to do in light of this hindrance, and did not want to waste time dallying in her room all day. Instead she took to her large wardrobe and produced a thick green gown and brown robes of fur to wear against the encroaching cold.

The knock upon Arasson’s door brought his eyes up from the words in his book. There, before the fire in his chair, he sat, with a cup of hot tea in hand, still clad in his sleepwear. A thick pelt was laid across his lap. From his throat a low groan sounded as he tossed aside the warmth and book, setting his tea gently down upon the small table beside him. With airy steps, he strode to meet the disturber of peace. Upon opening the door, he found Neithrien waiting at his doorstep with wandering eyes, bundled for warmth. At times, Arasson forgot that she was far more affected by the cold than he and other full-blooded elves.

“How might I help you, _brennil_?” A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as she looked back to him with a fondness upon her face.

“Might I come in? Nestedir has left for the day, and I couldn’t stand to stare at the same walls again.” Arasson laughed and gestured for her to come inside. With gratitude on her tongue, she rushed  
inside and let the robe slip partly from about her clad shoulders, pooled beneath her sharp shoulder blades.

“What did you and Faror speak about yesterday?” Arasson asked as stood behind her, taking the heavy robe from her arms and laid it across the back of his mother’s old daybed. Neithrien lowered herself upon the plush seat, kicking off her shoes. She brought her legs to curl up, stacked upon each other, and reclined against the back of the chair, cradling her cheek in her fair hand as the other rested upon her leg.

“Nothing that pertains to you.” She shot him a playful look and he lifted a coy brow. “I was given an extra day off during this break.” Arasson’s brow shot up in surprise. “I had spoken to the captain about my sleepless situation, and he granted me an extra day’s rest from my duties. We both thought it best that I refrained from guarding while being _so out of it._ ”

“How fortunate of you!” Arasson said with a playful sneer, to which she swiped at his legs with a swift hand. He laughed aloud and grasped his tea, before offering the drink to her. She accepted with thanks and drank from the cup as well, letting her eyes fall shut as the heat of the drink spread through her chest. “What are you going to do then, while you’ve got the time?”

“I was hoping to spend time with you, if I’m not a bother?” She proposed with an eyebrow cocked that more or less challenged Arasson to say otherwise. He only offered her a dimpled grin in return.

“Of course, _mellon_. I would very much enjoy your company.” His heart gave a little kick, and he wished it away, however fruitlessly. “It’s a shame we cannot hunt at this time. That would perhaps be some fun.”

“Perhaps…” was all she said, before her voice trailed off and other words died in her mouth. Her eyes were now cast out the window, which offered a view of the snowy glade from outside of it. She looked lost in thought; like she could be drowning in it, really. Pale fingers absent-mindedly stroked the smooth fabric of her gown that draped the expanse of her legs, while the other hand was lost in the sea of hair, only the tips of her fingers peeking out from the waves of mussed hair. The cold was being chased out of her body, and color was returning to her cheeks - the rest she had been gifted with as of late was certainly to do with it as well. And it struck Arasson then, as he admired her from his own seat, hidden behind his cup and book, just how delicate she looked. How he remembered her mother looking before she had begat the woman he now had grown such a fondness over. The only true differences he could see between them was the absence of a motherly glow, and the sharp, leaf like ears that poked through her crown of darkening hair.

“Have you got any maps for me?” She asked suddenly, and brought her wandering gaze to him. A grin split his cheeks and he rose again from his seat, shifting over to his bookcase, where he had set aside a stack of books for her.

“I do, in fact.” He carried the load in his arms, and set it on the edge of the daybed before sitting on the floor in front of his companion. “This one I made recently – I think you’ll like it.”

She let a smile slip over her lips as she took the scroll from Arasson and unfurled it. The geographies were the same as almost every other map they both owned, however, in scarlet ink was delicately written the place-names in Westron, instead of Silvan or Sindarin, as he typically did.

“However unteachable I may be when it comes to speaking Westron fluently, I did remember some names…” he shrugged and rubbed lamely at his neck. “It’s sort-of silly, but I thought you might appreciate.”

“I do appreciate it, Arasson. I love it!” Neithrien let her hand wrap around his, and gave it a squeeze before she gingerly rolled the map up and tied it by its leather string. “What else have you got for me?”

“Ah! I went scavenging as you asked, and stole this from Edenor’s talan.” They both laughed as he pulled a thin booklet out of the stack. “All you need to know about all natural growth in every existing region of Middle-earth.”

“Oh, thank you!” She cried out happily, and flicked through the pages carefully. _One step closer to what I need._

“I must say that it was a very specific request but…” he gave another shrug, and then continued to hand her the other small things in his pile, of which she all received happily, which in turn over-joyed Arasson, and they sat there, she in her seat and he on the floor, pouring over books.

The day had been further spent like that; enjoying each other’s company in comfortable silence, with the few words spoken being soft and joyous, and the breaking of bread sweet and homely. She had parted from her good friend’s company with a spring in her step, and had carried out her joy throughout the evening, when she made dinner for herself and her brother. Alongside the meal she had prepared, she made and set aside a few servings of preserved rations for her journey, hiding them away under an overturned bowl and cloth.

Though, when they had finally sat down to eat, they had gone for each other’s throats again, shouting at each other like mad before Neithrien had simply stormed from the room, taking with her the bowl of goods. It was not exactly how she’d wished the day to end, but she can’t say that she regretted it. Now, when they fought, she relished it, because not only would this be the last time she would be in the company of family for a long, long while, but also because it drove a wedge between the two. How she hated the cold that was seeping in between the cracks of their relationship again, but she knew it was for the best, and had to be done in order for her to feel at peace in leaving her brother.

_**Girithron**_

_**Seventh Day**_

_**I am becoming gladder for the snow fall: it has given me more time to say my silent farewell to those I love, and to prepare for my leave-taking. I have made myself some way-bread, though it pales in comparison to that of the Galadrim, and taken a few extra servings of fruit, nuts, and cured meats from early autumn, and stowed them away in my pack. They should hold for two more weeks - long enough to get me safe and secure inside Lorien, where I should hopefully then be granted either temporary stay, or rations and a camp for the night.**_

_**Nestedir will not take my leave well, I know, and I dread the thought of him waking up to find me gone. And I know that if I make my way back here, some time, somehow, I will not be well-received by him.**_

She let the ink dry and the closed the book, tucking it away in her shelf. For a moment, she listened - the sound of snow lightly falling, of some nocturnal creature slinking about, the crackle of flame beside her, and of the soft snores that came from down the hall. Now is the time. A cloak of grey-white, she secured about her neck, and slipped on her shoes, before noiselessly stalking down the hallway, to the exit at the back of the house.

With only the slightest of creaks, the door swung open for her, and she stepped out into the cold night. Snow fell delicately upon her shoulders and hooded head as she strode on the snow, slowly creeping towards the stables, where the horses rested. They paid no mind to her as she entered, her eyes scanning in the dark, looking for a saddle that she knew lived in this old, weather-beaten structure. And there, high upon the wall in the farthest corner, hung a great saddle that bore packs and pockets for travel, and bridle and reins of thick leather. The idea of forcing such things upon her steed made her heart ache, but she knew it to be necessary. Upon her toes, she stretched to lift the gear from its hook. Steadily, it was let down and fell into her arms. She quickly swept her cloak over the pile, and snuck back out into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Neth = Sister  
> Hanar = Brother  
> Brennil = Lady


End file.
